Chapter 19 #2
That stops me. He’s not wrong and I want to hate him for it, but I can’t.
“I didn’t do any of that,” I whisper. “I didn’t write those books or preach those sermons or burn anyone alive.”
“No,” he says, softer now. “I know.”
I sit back down like my legs forgot how to work. He’s not wrong. And while it stings, to hear what he thinks of humans, the reality is worse than that. He’s not wrong. There may be no way home for me. And that’s the part that really fucking stings.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, voice flat.
“Because you asked.”
I look at him—really look. He’s not gloating. He’s not angry. There’s no self-righteousness in his tone, no ‘I told you so.’ Just truth. And somehow, that makes it worse.
“I wanted answers,” I say. “Not whatever reality check that was.”
“You wanted comfort. That’s different.”
I laugh. It’s sharp. Broken. “And you don’t do comfort.”
“I do clarity.”
It hangs between us. That awful, infuriating clarity.
“I do appreciate you,” I say. “I don’t think you’re evil, even if you do walk around looking like a six-foot sin with a sword collection.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
The silence that follows is less jagged than before. Still heavy, but quieter now. Worn down by the edges of the fight.
“Do you really think we made you up? Demons?” I ask finally.
“No,” he says. “I think I’m right about the stories, and that it has more to do with fearing what you don’t know. And I still have no answers on how to get you back home.”
I’m not going to crash out. I’m not.
“Let’s go back,” Caziel says.
I blink. “To where?”
He steps closer. Not quite within reach, not yet, but I can feel the heat of him anyway.
“Your world. I want you to walk through the door.”
I stare at him. “Are we doing a visualization exercise now?”
“You are adrift,” he says simply. “Anchoring helps.”
“…Right.”
He gestures lightly, as if to say, Humor me, and because I’m too tired to argue—and maybe a little desperate for something to hold onto—I close my eyes.
“I walk in,” I say. “The air smells like… old dust and laundry detergent. George is on the windowsill. He yells at me. I yell back.”
A small pause.
He prompts, “What does he need?”
“Dry food, bottom cabinet. Blue bag. Water in a glass bowl that he tips over on purpose. He only drinks out of the bathroom sink, though. His litter box.”
“And after him?”
“My phone. Or… no. Actually pajama pants and a hoodie. Then the heating pad.”
I open my eyes.
Caziel is watching me like the words matter. Like each one is a thread he’s tying around me to keep me here.
“What is a heating pad?” he asks.
“It’s a small pouch thing. You plug it in and it gets warm. I use it for my back. Sometimes my stomach. It helps with—” I pause. “Cramps.”
His brow lifts. “Cramps?”
“You know. Periods.” He frowns. “Menstruation,” I clarify. “Monthly bleeding. Biological mayhem. Hell’s subscription box.”
“You mean every month you…bleed? From…”
“My vagina? Yep. Stupid uterus.”
“And this is…”
“Normal?” I nod. “Unless I’m pregnant.”
Caziel’s expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s a flicker of understanding—and maybe the faintest touch of horror.
“I see.”
“You’re lucky you don’t.”
“I believe you.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I might not even have anything in the cabinet. I wasn’t planning to be gone this long. It’s not like I keep track of my tampon inventory.”
“I assume that is… a necessity?”
“Unless you want to sacrifice a bedsheet, yeah.”
His face does something—tightens almost imperceptibly—but he doesn’t look away.
“Continue,” he says. “What else would you reach for?”
I let my hands drop into my lap.
“My meds.”
He straightens slightly. “Where are they?”
“Typically? Bathroom. Top shelf. Orange bottle, white label. Currently? No idea. Maybe still in the conference hotel unless they’ve already torched my stuff.”
“For what condition?”
I glance up at him, surprised at the phrasing.
“Depression,” I say flatly. “Chronic. Sometimes spicy. One of the many perks of being a human with unresolved trauma and subpar insurance.”
His jaw ticks just a little.
“How long has it been since your last dose?”
“No idea.” I pause. “Time’s weird here, remember?”
His silence is sharper this time.
“Is that dangerous?”
I shrug. “I’m not going to hurl myself off a parapet if that’s what you mean, but it’s… not great. The symptoms sneak in. Slowly, and then all at once.”
“What symptoms?”
“Fatigue. Fog. Irritability. Feeling like I’m watching myself through frosted glass.”
His brow furrows. “And there is nothing here to replace it?”
“Oh, totally,” I deadpan. “I’ll just pop down to the local apothecary and refill my prescription. Maybe ask the soul-fire cult if they take prior authorizations.”
He doesn’t respond, which is annoying, because that was solid material. I sigh and rub at my eyes.
“It’s fine. It’s manageable. I’ve done worse stretches without it. College was basically a four-year experiment in untreated mental illness and ramen noodles.”
“Still,” he says, “you shouldn’t be without it.”
“Yeah, well. You’re not exactly brimming with pharmaceutical infrastructure here. Do drugs even exist here?”
“I can make inquiries.”
That pulls me up short.
“You… what?”
“I’ve studied transmutation and binding rituals. Certain symptoms might be eased. It depends on what your body lacks.”
I stare at him. “You’re serious.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”
The knot in my chest tightens. It’s not just that he offered—it’s that he asked.
That he listened. That he’s trying to understand, even if everything about me should be foreign and beneath him.
He doesn’t fill the silence. He lets me sit in it, but not alone.
Maybe that’s what makes it easier to say—
“I didn’t think I’d miss any of it,” I murmur. “But I do.”
He says nothing. Just waits.
“I miss the smell of rain on hot pavement,” I say.
“I miss shitty TV reruns, especially reality dating shows like First Lady—Will and Jane are my all-time faves—and cheap candles that smell like baked goods and the sound George makes when he’s hungry but too lazy to stand.
” A breath. “I miss being able to fix my bad days with a heating pad and a cinnamon roll and some Arctic hockey games” I look up at him.
“I miss being able to say I was okay, and actually almost believe it.”
Caziel’s expression doesn’t shift much, but something in his stance—his stillness—feels heavier. I laugh. Wobbly and bitter and exhausted.
“You know,” I say, wiping at my eyes, “in some ways, this is exactly what I asked for.” He lifts an eyebrow. “A new world. A break from everything. An escape hatch. I just didn’t expect the hatch to drop me in demon country.”
“Is it truly so terrible?” he asks, voice neutral.
“I’ve met some decent people.” I smile at him, but he doesn’t return it, “Plus I happen to be a fantasy girlie and have read quite a few books where the heroine is dropped into an unforgiving magical world.”
“No wonder you believed Crimson a dream, a nightmare..”
“Well,” I smirk, “actually, the newer stories about demons and lost human heroines?” He glances up, dark eyes meeting mine. “They’re mostly smut.”
“They’re what?”
“Smut,” I repeat. “Sex. Usually with tails or tentacles or screaming orgasms.”
“With—?”
“Yes.”
The look on his face makes me laugh until tears slide down my cheeks and blur my vision.